poem index

poet

Micah Ballard

Printer-friendly version

by this poet

poem
Off hours
I inhabit a roll top desk
& read in waves to let the voices war
dead names ignited with a pilot
the brightest ones  
are stars of the same order
hard looks that fall apart on entrance
I can never see their faces
but the music stays there
a wheezing organ
& my last debt to high society
public